And Smash
by Joannabelle
Summary: A reaction of the worst kind.  Peter centric.  Spoilers for 3x13 and before.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Fringe. At the moment, I don't know if this is a good thing or not.

**Summary:** A reaction of the worst kind. Peter centric. Spoilers for 3x13 and before.

Because you can't half-break, Peter (cough, _Reciprocity_, cough). It is all or nothing.

**A/N:** Apologies about the repost. This story has been driving me insane. Not beta'd, and honestly, there are probably mistakes, so I apologise for those too.

* * *

**And Smash**

* * *

He can't breathe.

His chest is packed and his throat is closed. His body – _all_ of it – is tightened like a vice.

She stands there – beyond the desk, beside the window – and she stares at him. Her red hair seems unkempt, upswept ... and in her arms is a bundle.

And Peter Bishop cannot breathe.

There – _there_ – from within her arms, comes a wail. It pierces through the air.

They are all frozen there, in Nina Sharp's office – him_self_, his _father_, his _Olivia_, his _Astrid_. Broyles. Nina. ... And _her_.

But it is not just _her_.

And they are all silent; lips parted, eyes wide, swivelled in his direction –flitting back to her. Every one of them is still. Ice solid.

And the wail _tears_ through them.

It is a screaming, shattering call – splitting at his eardrums, stinging at his skin. The hair on his arms, on his legs, on his neck, it is sprung to attention. He can't_ hear_ anything else right now; it is all too muffled, it is all too soft. It is as though his head is filled with cotton balls and it is _only_ the wail, _only_ the scream that gets through.

She makes no move to comfort it. He thinks that he can see the bundle _surging _in her arms – with such force, such _power_ – but she does not even shift.

He can't _breathe_.

He is going to vomit.

_No_. Correction – he _is_ vomiting. Right now. He can feel the acid surging up his throat. He does not have any time.

Peter stumbles to the side – to the left – his head swishing first as he propels himself down, down, down until thumping upon all fours. His knees thud on contact, with a heavy, shooting pain.

He retches a translucent yellow; a burning, violent beige. It isn't much. ... He splutters on it regardless.

No, no. Please no, please no, please no. No, no _no no_ _no no no no no no no_—

"... _no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no_—"

"Peter?" A hand rests upon his shoulder.

"_Get off_!" he gasps, and the words rip _rough_ out his throat. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

He can't do it.

He can't breathe.

He bolts. Pushes himself up – thrusting with both hands. It isn't a run, but it _should_ be. But instead he moves in a stumble, in a drunken, messy stagger. Heavy footed and slow. His legs do not seem to know which way they are going. They slide out underneath him, nearly fold.

Seven and a half seconds later, he finally makes it through the door.

He doesn't know _where_ he is going. He doesn't know what he is doing. He is on the seventeenth floor of Massive Dynamic and that is _too far up_. He can't _get_ anywhere right now.

They've _trapped _him.

The walls are enclosing around him, pulling towards him through some magic, magnetic force. Breaths puff out his mouth in short bursts and they are shallow. His fingers tingle. His heart pounds.

Peter turns, in the hallway, pushes his head against a wall. It is cold to his touch. He tips his face to the side, lets his left stubbled cheek squash against the white tile.

Somehow he can still hear it. Still hear the _wailing_. It must have wormed its way out under the door, followed him down the hall.

And it is screeching at him. It is pitching at him.

His tongue sits thick at the floor of his mouth. The tile against his cheek becomes warm, and he shifts his head. His knees give way. He slides to the floor with a dizzying thunk.

Footsteps are clicking behind him, in a tumultuous rush down the hall, and _oh God_, hasn't she done enough? Is she _following him_?

His throat tightens even further. His lungs begin to ache.

When hands rest upon his back, he realises that it isn't her. And he gets it. He does. Because _she_ must still be in the room behind him, still standing there by the window. With that _bundle_ in her arms. Letting it _scream_.

He lets out a choked moan, and tries desperately to reel the air back in. There is talking behind him now, slow and draw-out. He can hear Walter – and Olivia – but he cannot make out their words. They could be talking to him.

"_I can't breathe_." He gasps, and the voices still. "_I can't breathe_."

Clutching the floor, Peter spreads his arms out wide beneath his torso. Hands smooth their way across his back, steady and slow and soft and –

This isn't _happening_.

This really is not _happening_.

He sucks air in as fast as he can, as the rush in his ears gets louder. Walter's circles leave burns in his back, and Peter wants nothing more than to shake him _off_. But he can't control his body.

The scream that reverberates around his head begins an ascent, rising octave by octave until it becomes nothing more than an incomprehensible ring in his ears.

And he can't do this.

And all of a sudden something _clicks_. Something screeches to a halt inside of him. Something _plugs_. He is in a crumpled heap on the floor, and as fast as it all began – as fast as it all came on – everything stops. A dead calm descends upon him, weighs him down. His breathing slows. The tightness gripping his throat lets up ... and his hands still.

It is a rush of relief – and he tips his head forward, rests his forehead to the wall. Peter opens his eyes.

The wailing is gone.

He is sitting on the cool floor in the corridor, and Walter is running hands up his back. Olivia – _his_ Olivia, blonde Olivia, sad Olivia – is perched at his side.

Walter's hands begin to slow. "Peter ...?" The question hangs in the air. Olivia parrots the word in his ear, her fingers resting upon his upper arm.

Peter blinks.

"It's fine." He replies, and he can barely make out his own voice. It sounds very far away, as though he is standing apart from them all, somewhere further along the hall. But he is right here.

In a surge of sudden strength, sudden drive, he pushes himself up off the floor. His legs tingle beneath him as they move. Walter tries to push him back down.

"Son, I really don't think that's the best idea–"

Peter shakes his head, side to side, and he feels suddenly, _perfectly_ okay. He feels normal. He feels _awake_.

He can breathe.

"It's fine." He continues, as though Walter had never spoken, "It doesn't matter." And he does not as much as tilt, his legs straight, head hovering above them all as he stretches back up.

Walter lets his arms fall reluctantly away. "Peter ... –"

"I'm going to leave now." He informs them, his voice plain, steady and flat. It is just so that they _know_, of course ... that he about to depart. A useful fact.

He brushes his hands upon his pants, _dusts_ himself off. Removes all the traces. Removes all the flecks.

He catches the frown Walter sends in his direction, and it registers – in a way ... but it just doesn't _mean_ anything to him. It's pretty clear why Walter is frowning. _Their_ Olivia just turned up here with a child. A little, tiny bundle in her hands. Three guesses as to why.

"Peter ..."

He needs to get to the elevator. It is his fastest route out of Massive Dynamic. It is the best way to go.

"Peter."

He steps forward with resolve. He keeps his eyes averted as he brushes past his father, brushes past Olivia, strides past Broyles – he doesn't look any of them in the face. It is contact he cannot make. The final thread that needs to be cut.

He pauses, just once, briefly down the corridor. Runs his hand over his face. Rubs at his jaw. And he considers turning back around – just swinging back on his heels ... and _begging_ them for help. _Begging_ them not to let him go.

The urge passes.

He continues his path.

The receptionist nods to him as he goes by the front desk, and he glances back at her for a second. She has returned to her files. Her head is bent down, her eyes scanning a page.

She is completely _unfazed_ by him. It is like nothing has changed.

And in that he feels truly at ease. She is wrong, of course. So _totally_ wrong – ... but he is removed. He is disjointed. He is calm.

There are a _million_ thoughts running circles in his head – memories of _minutes_ ago, memories of _months_ – as he walks toward the front entrance. He takes one final look around him, and catches not a single eye. The shining glass doors swish open at his approach with a smooth, polished sound. And his face is blank.

He steps through the threshold.

In a perfect world he'd turn around then, and let them all know. Tell every person entering the building in a rush that there is a woman upstairs who has just changed it all. Standing at the window of the seventeenth floor. She has changed everything.

And that, from the moment she arrived there, bundle in hand, and _stared_ at him – Peter Bishop had made up his mind.

That there _is_ another way after all.

And he knows right what to do. He knows _just_ where to go.


End file.
